


Tear You Apart

by sevenriots



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, God this hurt to write, Slow Burn, The Punisher, but those scenes hurt man, i'll sob if we get cancelled, kastle - Freeform, love y'all fellow Kastle hoes, season 2 just slaughtered me okay, we're canon, writing this until news of cancellation or renewal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenriots/pseuds/sevenriots
Summary: Neither of them were free to say it, but they knew. The person that climbs inside you and tears you apart, makes you feel like you're never going to recover--they knew they had become that for each other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. So I wrote this almost immediately after watching 2x11 (those scenes killed me), and the prologue picks up a bit after where the finale left off. I haven't published fanfic in almost four years but Kastle is solid inspiration. I was emotional when I wrote this, J.B. and D.A.W. deserve all the awards. Anyway, prayer circle for season 3.

_“I gotta walk outta here and you can’t do it with me.”_

 

   Ninety days.

   That’s how long it’s been since she’s seen him. God, it felt like an age and a minute all at the same time--her memories were still just so vivid. Memorized every bruised pattern on his skin, the latticed wounds on his face. Those eyes that were so brown, the color spectrum almost collapsed to black--those eyes that gave glances that were just so damn heavy. Heavy, she thought, because all of his baggage is in those glances. That’s what Frank does. He speaks with his eyes and his actions and damn if it wasn’t so heavy that she crumbled beneath the weight at one second and then rose like a phoenix the next just because he was still looking at her.

   Frank usually speaks nonverbally. But he had opened his mouth and sent out bullets this time; his tongue had been locked and loaded from the second she’d laid herself bare. _What if you and I…?_

   His words from their first hospital heart-to-heart whispered through her ears.

 

_“We had a motto, it was a saying: one shot, one kill.”_

 

   And hell if Frank didn’t stick to that motto whether he was targeting criminals or targeting Karen Page’s heart. It had felt enough like being shot, being told in no uncertain terms that he did not want to choose to love someone else instead of another war. That he did not want to love her instead of another war. Instead of coming home to her, he’d crawl into bed with his demons, covering up the windows of his isolated house so that no light could creep in.

   The headlines that had emerged in the following months told her that his resolve had not wavered. Drug dealer executed here, rapist beaten to death there. Twenty members of rival gangs gunned to pieces in a warehouse on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Karen knew it wasn’t vengeance for his family that motivated him now. No, this is something scarier, something infinitely more bleak. This is the other side of Frank, The Punisher, motivated because this is what he wants. This is what he needs. This was who he was. A man on a righteous crusade that fought by unrighteous rules. An angel of death whose black wings are feathered with bullets and blood and whose face is a white skull.

   A man who could have all of that inside him, but still be the same man that loved his wife and children and who had saved Karen’s life and countless others. The same man who was loyal and protective of those he loved to the point of death. The same man who had pressed his forehead against hers in that elevator, mixing their blood and breaths. The same man who had nearly kissed her with tears in those heavy eyes after telling her he didn’t want to love her. Mixed signals.

    Ninety days.

    That’s how long it has been, and Karen wonders every day if she’ll ever speak to him again.

 

* * *

 

_"You could love something… or someone else instead of another war.”_

 

   Ninety days.

   That’s how long it’s been since he’s seen Karen. Frank still finds his mind wandering to her in quiet moments. He has a lot more of those these days, in these solitary days where he is a hunter. A one-man judge, jury, and executioner. He’ll never forget the look on her face before she walked out of his hospital room. He couldn’t quite put a word to her expression--resigned, broken, resolved? Maybe all three. Her eyes were what had screamed the loudest though. Those cornflower blue eyes that told him that she didn’t give two shits about what came out of his mouth, she was going to stand by him anyway.

    And he had tried to drive her away.

 

_I don’t want that. I can’t do that. I don’t want to._

 

   God, those words had burned like bile in his throat before they were even audible. Was it possible… Jesus, was it possible to mean something but not mean it all once? He meant it when he said he couldn’t do it. She had to know that if he said yes to her, she becomes a target. And he didn’t want that, didn’t want to allow for even the smallest possibility that she could end up in the pile of bodies stacked high because of him and the things he did. He couldn’t live with that. He didn’t want to live with that.

    But Christ, when Karen’s eyes glassed over with tears, he knew in his gut he didn’t mean it at the same time. And that was the problem. He did want her. He wanted the woman who had torn into his life three years ago and didn’t let him rot in a goddamn jail cell, who fought just as hard for him as he fought for her. And when that same woman looked him dead in the eye and told him her feelings for him didn’t change, even if he was a monster? Goddamn it. That made him more afraid than any strobe light beatdown Billy Russo could throw his way. The fear sank its claws into him and took control, made him do the only thing he knew how to protect her.

    Push her away.

    Just...Frank couldn’t even understand it. Couldn’t understand how a woman like Karen--all heart and bravery and beauty--could love a man like him--all rage and anger and darkness. Couldn’t understand what she saw in him because, shit, as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t nothin’ to see. No light at the end of the tunnel, he was pretty sure he had said. And Karen always praised him for being honest with her--but he became a liar the second she told him to make it mean something. He’d scrambled up after her despite the pain that hospital drugs couldn’t kill and stood in front of her. Almost started goddamn crying all over again when he told her she couldn’t walk out of there with him. Had part of her shirt between his fingers after she touched his shoulder and probably would have kissed her if the kid hadn’t barged in.

    The last he saw of her had been her back as she did what he asked and walked away without him. To her credit, she seemed to be getting along with her life just fine, judging by the same old savageness with which she cut down scumbags in her journalism. Those articles that he knew he shouldn’t be reading, but did it anyway because he was selfish enough to love her at a distance. Not that he expected her to be not fine. That wasn’t like Karen, to fold when things got tough. He’d meant it when he said she was brave and strong and stubborn.

    Ninety days.

    That’s how long it has been, and Frank tries to smother the longing to see her again every morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the idea for this chapter from a follower of mine on Tumblr. I ran with it because it was good stuff. Ya'll better be holding up your end on this whole season 3 prayer circle.

   “Come on, Amy. She said her name right to your face. Just _think_!”

 

   She knew for sure her first name was Karen. Karen, the tall and blonde woman who had been with Frank in the hospital that day. Except she couldn’t remember her last name, and she knew any Google search with the generic words “Karen New York” would spit out about a million results that would tell her nothing. Amy tapped her pen against her teeth, her knuckles, her desk. It started with a “P”, she was sure--Peters? Pace? Pane? Remembering names had never been her strong suit, faces were more her speed. She never forgot a face. Something learned in her time on the streets.

 

   A frustrated sigh blew past her lips. She threw her pen on top of her open diving textbook, the one Kyle insisted she read and study. His bold, uppercase writing was highlighted in a note on the top header: _PAY SPECIAL ATTENTION TO PAGE 46._ As she skimmed over it, something clicked.

 

   Page.

 

_Page. Karen Page!_

 

   “You’re the best, Kyle!” she shouted towards her open bedroom door.

 

   A beat of silence, then, “Huh?” from down the hallway. Amy grinned and hunched over her laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Within five minutes, she knew that Karen Page was a journalist (a freakin’ good one, she noticed) that worked with two other dudes named Nelson and Murdock. The trio made up a law firm that brushed arms with the scum of New York. Probably how Karen and Frank had met, she guessed. She also knew the phone number to her office. It would do until she could trick someone into giving out her personal number.

 

   That only took another ten minutes.

 

   Dredging up her skills from months past, Amy had called the office and convinced whoever answered the phone that she was a client of Karen's who had lost her card and needed to reschedule an appointment. Some unsure stutters and paper rustling in the background later, Amy was scrawling out a number on a post-it note.

 

   “Thank you _so_ much. You have no idea what a help you've been--what did you say your name was, again?”

 

   “Uh, Logan.”

 

   “Well, thanks again, Logan. You're a lifesaver. Have a good one!”

 

   Amy tossed her phone onto the bed and continued clacking away on the computer. Karen Page's writing was good, really good. Her pieces on growing crime rates in New York and the lack of efficacy from the court systems were fantastic. She also, Amy noticed, was not afraid to openly degrade the city's criminals, no matter how big the name. _No mention of Frank in those articles._

 

   She was so caught up in Karen's work that she didn't hear Kyle walk up behind her.

 

   “What are you looking at?”

 

   Amy jumped, snapping her laptop closed and whirling around in her chair. “Uh, nothing. Just reading up on some potentially cool diving sites.”

 

   Kyle folded his arms across his chest, making the Marine Corps tattoo on his left bicep ripple and stretch. “I'm going to try not to be offended at being so obviously lied to.”

 

   “Me? Lie to you? I would never.”

 

   He rolled his eyes. “Right. I'm starting to think it's one of the only things Frank taught you,” he muttered.

 

   It was Amy's turn to cross her arms, suddenly getting serious at the mention of Frank. “Yeah, well. Maybe if you actually told me how he was doing every once in a while, I wouldn't have to lie about some stuff.” She threw out an accusing glace. “I know you're in touch with him.”

 

   “Of course I’m in touch with him, Amy. It’s not every day that a dead battle buddy comes back to life.” Kyle ran a hand over his bearded jaw. He knew Frank from going through OCS school, later touring with him in Afghanistan. Frank, Russo, Curt, Gunner--he knew all of them. He’d also gotten a call when the Castle family had been killed.

 

   So, if there was anything weirder in life than a dead friend calling you up and asking you to take in a teenager, Kyle Lawson had yet to experience it.

 

   “What, so he can ask how I’m doing, but I can’t ask how he’s doing? That’s bullcrap.” He had expected that any protegé of Frank’s would swear a good amount, but this girl had yet to say one curse word.

 

   “Amy,” Kyle started, his voice softening. “Look, I don’t know the ins and outs of how you and Frank met. I don’t know the full story of what you both did while in New York; I don’t need to. But if Frank says that you’re better off not knowing what he’s up to, then I believe him. I know he cares about you. I think this is just his way of protecting you.”

 

   “Yeah. I guess.” She looked away, shrugging. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

 

   Kyle gave her a soft smile, reaching up to rub a hand on her shoulder. “I know, kid. In the meantime, grab that textbook of yours and meet me in the living room in twenty. Pop quiz.”

 

   “Pop quiz? I take back what I said earlier. You're not the best.”

 

   Kyle disappeared with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand. Amy waited for a few seconds more to ensure he was gone before snatching her phone off the comforter and planting herself into her desk chair. She looked at the number written on the yellow paper. Spent a few more seconds asking herself if she should really do this.

 

   Amy began punching the digits in.

 

* * *

 

 

   “Tell Foggy that I can't make it to dinner tonight when he comes into the office. I'd wait and tell him myself, but I'm meeting up with one of my sources on the Katims case.”

 

   Karen Page flicked her hair behind her shoulder, flapping her shirt to cool herself down. She'd been running around all day like a headless chicken. Finishing articles, doing research for new leads, scheduling meetings with sources and clients, dodging calls from Ellison. If she crunched, she could probably make dinner with Foggy and Marci. But she knew she'd be exhausted. Take a rain check.

 

   Her phone started buzzing as she slid into the driver's seat of her Buick. “Jesus, Ellison, don't you know how to take a _hint_ \--”

 

**Unknown number.**

 

   A different kind of heat flashed through her, crawling up her neck and settling in her ears. Karen's heart tripped into a faster beat. _It could be Frank_ , she thought. Her thumb hovered over the green icon. Did she even want to answer it? She already tasted sourness on her tongue.

 

   Karen's mind forked in two different directions. It was either Frank or someone else. If it was Frank, what could there possibly be to say? She sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. That ball was in his court, dusty and deflated. If it was someone else, who would it be?

 

   Curiosity won out and she answered.

 

   “Karen Page.”

 

   “Hi, Karen? It's Amy. I know you probably weren't ever expecting to hear--”

 

   “I'm sorry, who is this? I don't know anyone named Amy,” Karen said slowly. She certainly hadn't been expecting the voice of a teenaged girl.

 

   “Oh, that's right. I never actually told you my name back in that hospital. I'm Frank's friend.” Amy mistook Karen's silence for lack of comprehension. “You know, the girl who pretended to be a nurse and almost got choked to death by that cop?”

 

   “I know who you are.” More silence, the kind that speaks for itself but the questions end up being asked anyway. “Are you...is Frank with you?”

 

   “No. I'm in Florida now. He sent me away.”

 

   “Of course he did,” she snorted. “Does he know you're calling me, then?”

 

   “Ha. No, he'd kill me, probably. He doesn't even let Kyle tell me how he's doing, and actually, that's why I'm calling. How is Frank? Is he, uh. Is he okay?” Amy cursed herself. The more nonchalant she tried to sound, the tighter her voice became.

 

   “Frank is…” Karen searched for words. She could guess well enough how dark of a place he was in, judging by how active he was in New York's more lethal nightlife; it burned her, the thought that she didn't know anything more about Frank than any other citizen who could read. “Frank is doing what he wants to do.”

 

   Amy wasn't stupid. She knew what Karen's tone and subtext meant: Frank was Punishing full time. It occurred to her, then, that she hadn't really factored in the possibility that Karen knew about as much as she did. With what she'd seen between them at the hospital, there had been no doubt that Karen would be the one to ask.

 

   “So, you haven't talked to him recently?”

 

   Karen laughed then, loud and long and bitter. “I haven't heard from or seen him since the hospital.”

 

   “Why don't you reach out to him?”

 

   Karen took the phone away from her ear for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. _Because I shouldn't be the one to reach out first, goddamn it_. _I'm always the one who reaches out first and I'm fucking tired of it_.

 

   “Look, Amy. If you were hoping for an informant on Frank's affairs, I'll be perfectly honest with you. I'm not the person to talk to. I've been completely shut out of his life.”

 

   Amy processed through her reply. So she wasn't the only one who Frank was blocking himself off from. She realized belatedly that she wasn't surprised--Frank Castle was literally the worst at relationships. Thought he was too dangerous for anyone to get close, so he shoved them away with zero consideration for their own ability to choose.

 

_But. He still checks in on me. I bet he does the same with Karen somehow_.

 

   “Yeah,” Amy finally said. “Yeah, somehow that doesn't surprise me. Par for the course because of his whole emotionally constipated theme.” Karen snorted from the other end of the line. “I've been shut out, too. And although he won't let me ask about him, he still grills my diving instructor about me--he still cares. I bet he's keeping tabs on you somehow, too.”

 

   Karen had to admit she'd never considered that before, and now her mind was in overdrive. If he was keeping tabs on her, what would that even look like? Did he… did he follow her from a distance on nights she chose to walk home? Check out her cases and sources? Read her articles like she read about his escapades?

 

   God, she hated herself for the way those possibilities made her stomach twist. Hated the fact that they both lived and worked within Hell's Kitchen and he still managed to remain hidden.

 

   “You might be right. But that doesn't change anything and it's not enough for me.” She glanced at the clock on her dash. “I'm going to be late for a meeting. I'm sorry that I couldn't help you, Amy. The best I can do for you is send you a link to the website for one of the local papers. It covers all of Frank's...outings.”

 

   Amy nodded before she realized Karen couldn't actually see it. “I'd appreciate that, thanks. And Karen. I know we don't know each other and I know that you know Frank way better than I do. But for what it's worth...I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you. He didn't want to leave you.” She waited to see if Karen would say anything, only heard her breathing. “I hope you guys can work things out.”

 

   Karen dropped her phone into the cupholder after ending the call, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes until she saw purple. She aired out the raw ache in her chest until all she wanted to do was drive home and drown it in scotch and takeout.

 

_I hope you guys can work things out_.

 

   “Yeah, well.” She spoke to no one as she yanked the car into drive. “I've done all I can do.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we got cancelled. The news was rough and gave me writer's block. I'll be soon working on a new AU Kastle fic!

   “Shit.  _ Shit _ .”

   Fingers slammed onto the keyboard in a panicked staccato. Most letters had long been worn off from use, but that didn’t matter--he could do this in his sleep if he had to. Google would suffice for what he needed to know.

**the punisher new york**

**tools: any time: past month**

**enter**

   He scrolled for three entries, clicking on the latest from  _ The Bulletin _ . Karen Page didn’t work there anymore, he knew, but the paper still held a fondness for covering anything that smelled of vigilantism. The Internet loaded the article, and the bald headline went straight to his gut: “The Punisher has Returned to Hell’s Kitchen: Body Count Rises.” Steel blue eyes reflected the glow of the screen, skimming the rest of the article, silently relieved at the lack of pictures of the culprit. A hand came up to rasp over a wiry beard in need of a trim. He blinked once, twice. Kept them closed on the third as his memory began to play.

_   "I’m leaving, Lieberman. Don’t know for how long. Don’t know if I’ll be back. It’s just, uh. Just somethin’ that I feel like I gotta do. I gotta…” Frank had trailed off, nose twitching. “I gotta learn how to live without the war. I didn’t want to leave without telling you.” _

   “David.”

   He jumped as he realized that his name was not being spoken in memory, but in the present. Eyes flickered up to meet the gaze of the blonde woman in the doorway to the office. Gently, he closed the laptop.

   “I said your name three times. Something wrong?” Sarah Lieberman was gentle in her question. She always was now, after what had happened. Like she felt that if she pushed too hard on anything, her husband would disappear again. 

   He shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “No. Just, um. There’s just a lot of work that I need to catch up on.” The lie felt jagged, cutting on its way out of his mouth. He could tell her, he thought. She knew about Frank, knew about him leaving the city. He didn’t need to lie. But he already knew he was going to reach out to him. Already knew that Sarah probably wouldn’t be too keen on that course of action if Frank was back on his vendetta against crime. 

   So he lied. 

   Sarah gave a breathy laugh. “Not surprising. We were gone on vacation for the summer, babe. Just got back last night--we haven’t even finished unpacking yet.”

   “I know. I know, and I promise I’ll help with that as soon as I finish this up. Give me five minutes.”

   Her eyes sparkled. “If we get done quicker, we can have more...alone time. The kids are tired from all the flying.”

   A lecherous grin exposed all of his teeth. “Give me three minutes.” Sarah laughed and disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later, he heard the staircase creak under her weight as she headed upstairs.

   He had Madani’s number within two minutes. It took a bit more poking around now that she was apparently full-blown CIA, but he managed it nonetheless. He scribbled the digits onto a notepad, tossed it into the desk’s center drawer, and locked it. He would make the call later tonight, he decided--after they settled back down, unpacked, and after he had loved his wife. 

   After.

 

* * *

 

 

   Dinah Madani squinted against the wind funneling into her eyes, holding her hands up to try and deflect some of the air. That was the one thing she hated about where she was stationed: the wind. It never let up. Everything flew here. Sand, leaves, papers, shit that governments tried to cover up. 

   Everything, including the tent flaps that were trying to whip her in the face. “Jesus Christ,” she growled, swatting at them as she tried to enter the main tent. She managed to dodge in unscathed until the last second--a zipper caught her in the temple, leaving a welt. She was still muttering profanities by the time a fellow agent caught her attention. 

   “You missed a call while on patrol.” He barely managed to get the words out around his mouthful of Fritos. Dinah rolled her eyes.

   “Did you get a name?”

   The young agent pushed his glasses up on his sweaty nose and tossed another chip in.  _ Crunch _ . “Nope, they hung up before I got the chance. Just said that he needed to talk to you as soon as possible about some guy named Pete.”

   Her head whipped around at the mention of Frank’s alias. She had called him, what? Two, three weeks ago at this point? It could have been him. Maybe he was reconsidering the offer. It was either that, or someone else was searching after Pete Castiglione, and knew that she knew him. The hairs on the back of her neck raised at the thought. Dinah wondered if the cloak and dagger production surrounding her involvement with Frank Castle would ever stop.

   Probably not, she decided as she redialed the number in the satellite phone. The mammoth device was clunky in her hands and it rang three times before the other line picked up.

   “Madani. How’s the CIA treating you?”

   She recognized the voice as it shaped around her name--it had been over a year. She skipped over the small-talk question, knowing it was an empty formality. “Lieberman. How is the family? I have to say, I never expected to hear from you again.”

   David followed her lead and ignored the prop question about his family. “Yeah. Well, I never really planned on reaching out. But imagine my surprise when I get back from the Virgin Islands for the summer and see that...Pete...is back in the city.” A pause stretched out between them--David used it to gauge her knowledge. Her silence told him everything. “You knew, though, huh? I don’t guess that your sudden switch from Homeland to CIA and his reappearance are coincidences.”

   Dinah had migrated to a secluded portion of the tent while he was speaking to make sure no one overheard. She cleared her throat. “Yes. I knew.” She chewed her tongue, wondering if telling him exactly  _ how _ Frank came to be back in New York was the best move. “I’m the one who brought him back, actually. I found him in Ohio.”

   “You did  _ what _ ?” 

   His tone was a mix of disbelief and anger. The corner of her lips curled up a bit. They really had formed quite the friendship; David’s protectiveness over Frank had always touched some part of her.

   “He was out travelling, trying to live a new life, and you  _ dragged him back into this shit _ ? Jesus, Madani, just because you were the one who gave him a new lease on life doesn’t mean you had the right to take it away from him.”

   “For your information,” she cut in primly, “Frank was already in another shitstorm by the time I found him.  _ He  _ is the one who called  _ me _ . He got arrested in Ohio and I was his phone call.”

   “Fantastic,” David muttered. “What do you mean, he was already in another shitstorm?”

   Dinah shrugged even though she knew he couldn’t see body language. “I’ll let Frank explain that part of the story to you. That is why you called, right? You want to know how to contact him?”

   “Yes.”

   She sighed, patting down her shirt pocket for a pen. Grabbing a piece of paper from a card table to her left, she wrote down the number she had last called Frank at and relayed it to him. “Look, I can’t promise that this number will get you through to him. You know his tendency to use burner phones, although I think he is set on permanent residence in New York this time. I offered him a job a few weeks ago, and to quote him, he said, ‘I already got a job, Madani. You take care.’”

   “Thanks, Dinah. I appreciate it.”

   “If you’re planning on telling him to stop, let me be the first to tell you that that’s a shitty plan. Frank wouldn’t listen, not even to Karen.”

   There was a rustle on the other end of the line, and she could practically see David running a hand through his hair. One of his many nervous tics. “Karen Page knows about this?”

   “She was right in the thick of it, David, you know her. That woman has a homing signal on Castle.”

   “Who else knows why he came back?”

   “Curtis Hoyle. Brett Mahoney, a detective in the NYPD. Billy Russo knew, too, but. He’s dead now. Frank killed him this time.”

   “ _ Jesus _ ,” David hissed, drawing the word out. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling the full weight of his exhaustion settle in. “I was only gone for three months. No incidences for a whole year, but oh, when I try to take a vacation,  _ that’s _ when everything happens.”

   She scoffed. “Well, you know what they say. No rest for the wicked.”

   “I guess not. Thanks again for the number, Madani. And, uh. Good luck with your CIA stuff. Wherever you are.”

   Dinah rolled her eyes fondly at his awkwardness. “I’ll see you around, Lieberman.”

 

* * *

 

 

   David tapped his fingers nervously against the chipped marble tabletop. It was almost noon on a Tuesday, so the diner he was sitting in seemed to be in a sleepy, post-breakfast haze. A few senior citizens sipped coffee while reading papers or chatting quietly. The two waitresses walked to each table about every fifteen minutes to check mug levels. Unconsciously, he synced his taps to the beat of the 50s music playing softly overhead. Typical diner atmosphere.

   The place was a fair distance away from Hell’s Kitchen, a location which he had used to incentivize his old friend to meet up. No one would recognize him, David reasoned. You should think of your family and stay away from me, Frank had countered. David had finally wrung a grumbled agreement from the gruff man by simply admitting that he missed him and wanted to talk. He had taken the side of the booth facing away from the door--Frank would want to have a line of sight on the exit at all times. When the clock reached twelve and there was still no sign of him, David began a countdown. Frank’s tendency to case places out before entering usually meant he walked in exactly two or three minutes late. 

   His watch read 12:03 when a figure slid into the booth across from him, black cap pulled low over his eyes and black jacket hood draped over that. Only his bottom lip and below could be seen. David allowed himself a small smirk.

   “Still into the whole incognito thing, huh?” Frank’s trigger finger twitched against the table for a moment. Then, he slowly reached up, pushed back his hood, and removed the cap. His hair was still in the high and tight fade, but it was longer on the top. No cuts or bruises marked his skin. He looked healthy, and David vaguely realized that it seemed foreign. But it looked good. “The longer hair works for you.”

   Frank snorted. “That what you want to talk about, Lieberman? My hair?”

   “Do you think I could pull that style off?” Frank snorted again, but a grin was beginning to peek through, so David kept going. “And, wow. Now that you’re not beaten half to hell, I can finally see how truly handsome you are. No wonder my wife lusted after you.” 

   A bark of a laugh managed to crawl out of Frank’s throat at that. “Jesus Christ. Still got the jokes, huh.”

   “I haven’t changed much, Frank. In fact, being back around Zach and Leo has only added to my arsenal of dad jokes.” He paused as one of the waitresses approached and offered coffee. Frank readily accepted, taking a swig of the dark liquid as soon as she put it in front of him. He thanked her as she moved on to another table. “So. You’re back in the city now.” 

   “Yep. I’m back.”

   Pregnant silence. David Lieberman had never been someone who could masterfully navigate tense conversations, and this one was not promising to change that quality. He took a breath and dove right into the deep end. “When you left last year, you told me you needed to learn how to live without a war. Try and imagine my shock when I come home from vacation a few days ago and see that you’re back. Publicly. And not only are you back, you’ve put so many criminals in body bags that it’s hard for the papers to declare an official count.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked out the window. “I talked to Madani. She said you were in a shitstorm when she found you again. Something about being arrested in Ohio.”

   “So that’s where you got my number, huh? I wondered about that.” Frank took another drink. Shrugged. “Look, Lieberman, it’s a long story and I don’t really know what you want me to say. I was gone for a year. Tried the whole normal life thing, and it went to shit as soon as I touched it. I helped a little girl who needed it. Got a good woman shot, and the people that did it chased the kid and me from Michigan to Ohio. Madani showed up in a helicopter, told me Russo had escaped out of the hospital and brought me back here. I was dealing with Russians and rich assholes on one front and him on another. When the smoke cleared, they were all dead and I was back to being what I was meant to be. And that’s the end of it.”

   “Back to being what you were meant to be?” David let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Dinah said that if I planned on asking you to stop, it was a shitty plan.”

   “Madani’s a smart woman.” A pause. “You gonna ask me to stop?”

   David was an analyst. He grasped situations, held them up to the light of scrutiny, turned them every which way to judge the best course of action. Searched for the path of least resistance. He studied his eyes and found the hint of a challenge in them, but nothing else. None of the old conflict where Frank before Maria and Frank after Maria waged war for his mind. 

   David analyzed. Saw the resolve and reconciled that with the fact that he'd seen Frank do things that normal people couldn't, and not only didn't let it bother him, but took pride in it. So he slowly shook his head. “No. I'm not going to ask you to stop.”

   “Smart man.”

   “But. You going to finally tell me how Karen Page fits into all this?” A slight  _ clink _ ; Frank's teeth had clenched on the rim of his coffee mug. David bit his lip to keep from smiling.

   Frank's elbow rested on the table, his mug loosely grasped in his fingertips now. The sinews of his jaw rippled beneath the skin as he worked it. “Karen's got nothin’ to do with this.”

   “Really? Because I heard--”

   “Drop it, Lieberman.”

   “--I heard that she was right in the thick of things. Just like old times, I guess.”

   Frank had to remind himself that he couldn't slam a porcelain object down without breaking it. “Madani needs to learn to keep her mouth shut about some things.”

   “I thought Dinah was smart?”

   “Yeah, well. Reconsidering that.”

   “Come on, Frank. Why is it so hard for you to talk about her? You talk about Curtis. You talk about your wife, your kids, even Russo. Karen has saved your ass so many times, but you can't even mention her?”

   A lesser man would have been intimidated by the sheer heat of Castle's burning, black gaze. “I don't want her anywhere near me, you got that? I know she's pulled my ass out of the fire many times. She doesn't deserve to be repaid with the dangerous shit that follows me around.”

   “You mean the dangerous shit that  _ you  _ follow around?”

   “Oh, for Chrissake. The point is, if I let her be around me, if I let her cut through all my bullshit, she gets a target painted on her back. And I will not let that happen.”

   David sensed that Karen Page was buried deeper under Frank Castle's skin now than she had been last year. Something had happened between them, he guessed, but the likelihood of Frank telling him about it was practically nonexistent. Instead, he laughed at the notion of there not already being a target on her back. He'd seen all that happened in the news between her and Fisk and those two lawyers she worked with. Honestly, he was surprised when Frank  _ hadn't  _ shown up through all of it.

   “Karen Page is enough of a shit magnet without you, man. I'm surprised you didn't haul ass back to New York with everything that went down with her and Fisk and that Daredevil guy.”

   Frank's back went rigid, a chill tearing up his spine and goosebumps breaking out over his skin. “What are you talking about?”

_    Oh, shit.  _ David's mouth opened, closed, opened again but no words came out.  _ He didn't show up because he didn't know.  _ As soon as that fact washed over him, he kicked himself for not making the connection sooner. Ignorance was the  _ only _ explanation for Frank staying away. And now he had inadvertently stepped in such a huge pile of shit that there was no sliver of hope to get out. There would be no talking his way around this one. 

   “I thought… I thought you knew,” was all he could manage.

   “Thought I knew what?” Frank's slow words were a testament to how much control he was using to not reach over the table and shake the truth from David's throat.

   “Frank, it… it was all over the news. Fisk put a hit out on Karen before he was arrested again.” He'd never seen Frank look so pale--it was as if someone had flipped a switch and drained the blood from his face. He looked like he was about to throw up. “She didn't tell you when she saw you?”

   His jaw was clenched so hard, he could bite through iron. He barely got the word out from behind his teeth. “No.”

   “She didn't call you at all while it was going on?”

   “Couldn't’ve even if she wanted to.” 

   “You didn't give her a number or email address when you left?” Frank was pointedly avoiding his gaze, but David still caught the shine in them that looked a lot like regret. Regret, and shame. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Frank, please tell me you told her before you left.”

   He was met with stony silence that spoke louder than any words. “Jesus Christ, Frank.  _ Jesus Christ _ .”

   “She deserved a clean break from me after that kid tried to blow her up.”

   “You said that Karen was your family. Shit, you tell your friends that you're skipping town, but not someone you consider  _ family _ ?”

   Frank bared his teeth and slammed his hand down on the table, drawing eyes from the diner patrons. “I get it, David. I get that I was shitty to her. Is she still in danger? That hit that Fisk put on her, is it still active?”

_    He’s two seconds away from tearing out of here and doing something stupid. Damage control, David, damage control _ . “Hey. Hey, relax, Frank. All that happened a few months after you left, relax. She’s okay. Fisk is back in prison, it’s done.” His words did nothing to ease the rigidity of his posture.  _ Okay. Time for another angle _ . “Look, Frank. You could… you could always just go see her. Talk to her. You owe her that, at least, for however she helped you this time around.”

   David could see the gears turning in his mind as he stared out the window, knew he was seeing only the bad things that could come from a visit to Karen Page. But when Frank’s head bowed after a minute or two of silence, he knew he’d gotten through to him.

   “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

   A few hours later, Frank was staring at a flower vendor from the other side of the street. There were all sorts of breeds, splashes of color making a bright display against the backdrop of New York.  _ This is stupid. She isn’t gonna want to see me. Probably plug me for real this time with that .380 of hers _ , he thought, a wry smile curling up his lips. 

   But when he laid eyes upon a small bouquet of white roses, the choice was made for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to give you guys an update before I leave for spring break! Writing Frank and Karen is actually much harder than I anticipated. There are so many good fics with good interpretations out there, and I don't want to be cliche in the writing. Thank you to everyone who reads and comments! Love y'all.

   It may have been said once or twice that Karen Page was a workaholic. In truth, the label didn’t bother her. She wasn’t the type of woman to take offense to things that were blunt but true. She actually took somewhat of a sense of pride in being able to lose herself in her work. It was what made her such a damn good investigative reporter--she’d lock on to a case, rip it apart, dissect it with no regard for passing days or weeks. Karen was the bloodhound of Nelson, Murdock, & Page.

 

   Being the best also meant that, occasionally, Foggy would try to send her home out of concern for her health.

 

   “Karen, seriously. The bags under your eyes are making it look like someone punched you.”

 

   “Don’t start, Foggy.”

 

   “When was the last time you slept?”

 

   She leveled him with a glare, bruised eyes and all. “I got a few hours last night. The caseload isn’t exactly light right now.”

 

   “No one told you to take on four at once, Karen. We do have other connections who can look into some of those,” Foggy replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

   “Yeah. And none of them are as good as me. Smith takes twice as long to finish one case as I do to solve three.”

 

   “Smith has a wife and kid.”

 

   She shrugged. “His divided time loyalties give me the advantage then.”

 

   “Yes, he has other things to focus on besides work, which is exactly my point. You need to find an outlet.”

 

   “Work _is_ my outlet, Foggy,” Karen sighed. “What else do I have?” As soon as she finished speaking, the weight of her words dropped in her stomach like an anvil.

 

_Nothing. I don’t have anything else. My two closest friends work with me and are also busy with their lives outside of work. Dinah went CIA and got stationed in the middle of God knows where. No family to speak of. And--_

 

   She stopped her thoughts on a dime before they could speak his name.

 

   Foggy glanced at his shoes, scuffing the toe of his Oxfords on the butcher shop tile. “Have you tried meeting someone?” At her answering facial expression, he rushed to defend himself. “I’m not trying to say that you’re pathetic or anything, really. I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…I know you’re lonely, Karen. And you can say you’re not all you want, but the only reason you don’t realize it is because you’ve been working so hard that it hasn’t hit you yet.”

 

   Karen almost laughed at the irony. It was the exact opposite: she realized the loneliness, and was working so hard in an attempt to outrun it. And the idea of going to a bar or a club to meet someone just seemed...ludicrous. The dating scene held absolutely no appeal for her anymore.

 

   “What happened at the hospital?”

 

   Karen’s head snapped up to meet his eyes as the question knocked the air out of her lungs. She inhaled slowly. “Excuse me?”

 

   Foggy grimaced. “Don’t...don’t do that to me, Karen. Don’t insult my intelligence like that. We all noticed that you did a vanishing act from work and then Frank Castle showed up in the news an hour later.”

 

   He could almost see the walls of Karen’s guard raise in the way her shoulders tightened at the mention of the name. Whatever had happened wasn’t great, then; Karen had never shown shame in her dealings with The Punisher, despite her knowledge of Foggy and Matt’s intense disapproval. So her posture didn’t denote shame, but pain. Pain was always the thing that Karen guarded about herself. Foggy wished for the hundredth time that he could reach into her and pull it out.

 

   She cleared her throat. “That’s really none of your business, Foggy. If I wanted to talk about it, I would have brought it up.”

 

 _No_ , he thought. _You wouldn’t have. Especially not with Matt around._

 

   He chewed his cheek. “I just want to help you, Karen. You’re my friend,” he said quietly.

 

   Foggy’s open care disarmed her, and she felt a pinch of guilt. She could tell him, she reasoned. He’d taken the news of Wesley and her brother in stride. But with Frank, it was different. She didn’t want Foggy and Matt to know about it. They didn’t understand him, didn’t understand why she was drawn to him. Frank had always felt like a secret she wanted to keep to herself--not because she was ashamed, but because it felt somehow right that way. Like it was their own personal, private thing. Which meant keeping silent about it even if it rubbed the walls of her soul raw.

 

   “I know, Foggy; I really appreciate it. I do. And you’re right. I’m just really tired.” She pushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Actually, I think I’m going to take your advice and go home. Try to take a nap.” She smiled.

 

   He smiled back, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “Okay. I’ll tell Matt when he gets back in. Let me know if you need anything or if you decide to take more time off.”

 

   Karen chose to walk home. She thought of Wesley, Kevin, Ray Nadeem, her father, Frank. Every step made weariness drain deeper into her bones while the bright summer breeze played in the tree branches. She was shivering by the time she walked through her apartment door.

 

   Switching her business casual for sweatpants and a hoodie, Karen lowered herself onto the couch with a sigh. Her worries didn’t have enough time to seep back in--sleep took her within seconds.

  
  


* * *

 

  


_“I hate hospitals.”_

 

_Karen glanced at her fourteen-year-old brother. “I know, Kev.” The elevator dinged as they arrived on the third floor of the oncology wing. As they walked down the hallway and turned left towards room 1211, she felt a sense of finality._

 

_Wondered if Kevin knew that this was the last time they would see their mother._

 

_Her father had pulled her aside last night, told her the reality of the situation. How the chemo wasn’t doing anything but make her sicker, make her waste away a little more each day. His voice had caught when he said that she was just suffering. Karen understood the foregone conclusion without needing it said. Accepted it with rationale and numbness. She’d seen this coming for a while._

 

_Paxton Page was slipping out of his wife’s room when he saw them coming down the hall. He hugged them both and looked at his daughter. “Your mother wants to talk to you for a bit.” He took Kevin by the shoulder and steered him towards another elevator. “Come on, let’s go get something to eat. I’ve been here since seven this morning.”_

 

_Karen watched them until they disappeared. The acrid, sharp smell of medicine and vinegar was thick in her nose. Staff used the vinegar as a cleaning agent for patients on dialysis and Karen couldn’t stand the stench. She rubbed her nose even though it wouldn’t do any good. That was the thing about the hospital atmosphere. It crawled into your nostrils and stayed there until you eventually forgot where you were. She realized that she hadn’t noticed it for the past two months--regular visits must have desensitized her. But this was no regular visit. As Karen reached for the door handle, her eyes began to sting._

 

 **_No. I haven’t cried about it for the past year and I’m not going to start crying about it now. It won’t change anything._ ** _Another deep, vinegar-laden breath. Fists clenched, shoulders squared, she knocked softly and slipped in._

 

 _Two IV poles stood as silent sentinels at the head of the hospital bed. Fluids, antibiotics, steroids, and other bags hung like ornaments from the metal tree. The tubing lines wrapped around each other like ivy; Karen distinctly noticed the absence of her tube feeding channel. One of the pumps hummed, the clear line sloping downward and into an IV port on an arm. A pale and bony hand was curled around a_ _small remote with a single red button. Penelope Page was enveloped in white hospital blankets. Gauze patches dotted her like tattoos--they covered sores caused by the bite of chemotherapy. Once the inspiration for her daughter’s pink ivory skin, she was now dimmed to a dry and grayish hue. Her blonde mane had been mostly ripped out by harsh treatment regimens. A few of the hairs remained._

 

_Karen thought about the cornfields of Vermont, of how they were vibrant and yellow and tall in the sunlight. Of how they were brittle, gray, and withered during blight seasons. She never thought she’d see it personified in her mother who had barely crossed the threshold into forty._

 

_“Karen.”_

 

_Her name wafted from cracked lips, so quiet it was nearly drowned out by the ticking of the clock on the wall. One thing that Penelope Page hadn’t lost was the fire in her ice blue eyes, and they burned clear as ever. Karen’s throat began to tighten. She dug her nails into her palms until her physical pain took precedence and dragged the corners of her lips into what she hoped was a smile. “Hey, Mom.” Sitting in the chair by the bedside, she laid her hand over her mother’s._

 

_Penelope smiled back. “Hi, sweetie. Did your Dad tell you I wanted to talk to you?”_

 

_She nodded. “He and Kev went down to the cafeteria.”_

 

_Another smile crinkled the corners of her mother’s eyes. “Good.” Her cold thumb rubbed over Karen’s knuckles, and she stared at their hands for a moment before looking back up, smile fading. “Karen,” she started._

 

_Her tone tore through her daughter’s defenses instantly, and Karen’s face crumbled, bowing her head as the first tear dropped onto her cheek. Her voice held the promise of abandonment._

 

_"No. Sweetie, shh. It’s alright.”_

 

_“Mom.” Karen’s murmur broke. “None of this is alright.”_

 

_“We don’t get to choose what happens to us. We only get to choose how we react.” A light squeeze from her fingers. “Karen, you’ve always cared for people. You grab on to the people you love and you take their pain away to put it on your own shoulders. You sacrifice what you want to give to others and try to fix their problems. I’ve watched as you’ve been doing that for your father, for Kevin, and the diner.” She laughed the soft laugh of reverie. “I’ve seen it ever since your brother was born. When you were seven and he was almost four, Andrew Yates stole Kevin’s swing on the playground. You marched your little self over there and pushed him out.”_

 

_Karen managed a small huff. “I remember that. Dad made me apologize to him.”_

 

_The gleam in her mother’s eye became mischievous. “I’m glad he did, because I certainly wasn’t going to make you.” Karen laughed this time, the raising of her cheeks pushing out more tears. She wiped the heel of her hand over them. “Your father has always been tougher on you than he realizes,” she continued quietly. “And I know that it’s been hard on you lately. Trying to take care of the family while I’m in here. He always needed me as...as a rudder. Before I got sick, we all know I was the one taking care of him and the diner. He’s just so unsure of himself sometimes.” At the faraway look in her eye, Karen could almost see flashes of memory playing in the blue, thinking back over their life together. Her mother didn’t speak again for another few minutes._

 

_“You know that I wanted to move us to New York years ago. The business could have done so much better there. But your father...he grew up here. Thought that it would be useless to leave whenever we had so much here in this town. This small, dreary town. So we never left and I eventually stopped asking. I made peace with it.” Her eyes refocused, grabbing her daughter’s gaze. “I don’t want you to get me wrong, Karen. I’m not complaining. I’ve loved going through life with your father, you, and Kevin at my side. I’ve loved the people in this small town and there is nothing that I regret. I don’t regret a single moment because I can lay here and know that you and Kevin are going to become beautiful people, even if I can’t be around to see it happen.” Penelope took a steadying breath; talking this much winded her._

 

_“Your father and your brother will need you. And I know you, you’ll put caring for them first. Just like I did. But there is something that you need to know about yourself, Karen. Don’t let that drive to care for others overshadow who you are. Don’t let it make you stay in places you don’t want to be. You have so much going for you, sweetie. Your writing...none of the local papers even come close to brushing your level of talent, and this town can’t offer you anything. I know you’ve been looking at Georgetown. They’d be fools not to take you.”_

 

_Silent tears stained Karen’s face silver. “I...I can’t just leave Dad and Kevin. You won’t be here for them anymore. They need me and I need you.” A sob managed to break free of her control._

 

_“Listen carefully to me, honey. There are people in this world who live to take care of the caretakers--who are caretakers in themselves. You need to find people like that and hold on to them. You can’t shoulder this burden on your own. But I know that you’ll try, because you’re my beautiful, strong, stubborn girl. Always ready to take on the world with bare hands.” Penelope paused. “Family is important. I’m not saying it isn’t. But you also have your own life to live, sweetie. Don’t feel guilty about wanting to live it. What do you want?”_

 

_Karen thought. She wanted her mother to stay with her._

 

_“I want you not to suffer anymore,” she whispered, laying her forehead on their clasped hands._

 

_“And I want you to promise me that you’ll find those people who will care for you like you need to be cared for.”_

 

_“I can’t even think about that, Mom. All I can think about is how you never had anyone to do that for you and now you’re laying here and you don’t deserve it. You don’t,” she cried._

 

_Penelope smiled, letting go of her hand to raise it and stroke her daughter’s hair. Her fingers didn’t shake. “Oh, Karen. I had you.”_

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


   “Jesus!” Karen gasped, jolting awake. Her chest heaved and the only sound in her apartment was her ragged breaths. It had been years since she dreamed of her last conversation with her mother. Her hoodie and her skin were damp with sweat. She stripped on the way to the shower, letting steaming hot water wash the memories off her body. _Find people who care for you like you need it, Karen._

 

   She scrubbed her hair harder.

 

   Twenty minutes later, her blonde strands were dampening another hoodie and she was discovering that her fridge was empty. She picked up the phone and ordered pizza, fully intending to turn on the TV and engage in something mindless. Her fingers itched to reach for the files on her kitchen table so she curled them into her palms.

 

   A knock on the door came soon after. She grabbed her wallet, slid the deadbolt back, and turned the knob, looking down as she tried to untangle a twenty and a ten. Opening her mouth to speak, she glanced up to ask what her total was. The words died in her throat. There wasn’t a teenager with a pizza box standing there.

 

   It was Frank Castle with a bouquet of white roses.

 

_What the fuck._

 

   Karen’s thought must have made itself into words, because Frank snorted and squinted at her. “Hey to you, too, Karen.”

 

   She looked at him and felt anger sparking in her chest. Here he stood before her, no bruises or scratches or blood after nearly four months of radio silence. She hadn’t heard a word from him. Before the hospital, she could admit that she’d imagined this scene playing out hundreds of times.

 

   Before the hospital.

 

   “What are you doing here, Frank?”

 

   He winced at the steel in her voice, winced at how her hurt had hardened over the past months. The hurt he’d put there. Standing here now, he felt stupid. Didn’t even know how to lead in to what he wanted to say--but, then again, he’d never been much for sugar-coating things. “David Lieberman told me about Fisk.”

 

   Karen’s jaw went slack.

 

   “I… I didn’t know, Karen. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” He ducked his head a fraction of an inch to look straight into her. Glanced inside her apartment and back. “Please,” he whispered.

 

 _Frank Castle and his stupid goddamn eyes._ She chewed her cheek as she thought through her options. She could make this really easy or really hard--but with Frank it was always both and. It was easy to be with him and hard to let him go. She shook her head, then looked up at him. Let a half smirk pull up a corner of her mouth.

 

   “You bought me flowers?”

 

   He blinked, then smirked back. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”


End file.
